Fix You
by Stephane Richer
Summary: But if you never try, you'll never know just what you're worth.


Fix You

Disclaimer: I own neither Tite Kubo's manga _Bleach_ nor Coldplay's song "Fix You".

She doesn't know him. She has no idea what or how much he knows about her. Well, scratch that, there are a few things she knows about him. She knows he is unhappy, for one. Unhappy with his life, unhappy with her, unhappy with himself. That is easy to see, though the cause is not. Why did he offer her a spot in the family if she fell short of some bizarre set of expectations that were never stated to her? She was never good at subtleties, and she wonders if he knows that about her. Probably not. And she lacks the courage to simply ask him outright to tell her what is expected. She should know by now, and that will undoubtedly be the answer. And why should he be unhappy with himself, with his life? He is perfect. If there is some chance he has missed, it cannot be for lack of aptitude or freedom. Since birth, the world has been at his fingertips—he is powerful, strong, handsome, talented. And yet, he is lonely and sad, even with her and the servants in the house. It is as if he is on some other plane where he cannot quite be reached.

And she knows that every year when the plum trees blossom in the garden he retreats further into his shell, and she has but a year's time to draw him out and then to start from scratch. She wonders if they make him sadder, or if they bring him some sort of solace. Perhaps it is both. But they do something for him. They may not be related by blood, but they must have some common ground. And this is why, this year, she chooses a cloudy afternoon to immerse herself in the garden. The cherries and maples are not yet in bloom, and the plums look very lonely and out of place. Perhaps this is why her brother likes them so much? They are very much like him, strikingly beautiful in their solitude. The pollen makes her eyes water, but she stays. It doesn't matter.

She feels tremendous regret, and perhaps it's not only the pollen. And again, perhaps that's why he likes them. He's the type of guy who would love a convenient excuse for tears, who probably finds it easier for nature to start the flow. The air is thick in her throat, as if someone has stuck wadded-up cotton down her throat.

It gets dark out early still. Near twilight, she senses his presence in the garden. He must feel her there, too, but he does not come very near. These feelings are not meant to be shared. He would not want to share her grief and regret, and she does not know if she can handle his. She is still too afraid. Is he afraid of her?

No, is her immediate reaction, but that quickly turns into a maybe. Perhaps he is afraid of her feelings, and that's why he is always alone. She feels his reiatsu flare up—is he angry? No, it's pain. He is beyond caring what she thinks, she realizes. He knows this is something she will not share. And so she, too, lets the sadness flow. Tears stream down her face; her nose is running, too. She is shaking silently, bent over beneath the tree, leaning on the old trunk, letting it prop her up. The wind blows the blossoms and seeds over her, and they stick to her hair and robes and wet face, and she cannot relent. All around her are reiatsu and petals, and she does not care either.

She does not feel the cold or the bitterness, or even, as time passes and the moon casts pale shadows through the half-bare garden, her own feelings anymore. They have gone the way of the wind, outward and into someplace she cannot see. The realization of that fact makes her shiver, and as if by some strange magic, there he is with a shawl to drape over her shoulders. He doesn't quite look directly at her, but leads her into the house nonetheless. He quietly waits for her to clean herself up for dinner, and she realizes she is learning these weird little social cues.

They eat, and it's less awkward than usual, though they don't talk. And that's okay. The plum season is a fact of life, and it will remain so. And he's willing to share it with her, though she knows there was a time when he would have banished her from the gardens. He's opening up to her, little by little. She cannot hide the contented smile as she sips her tea. They aren't perfect, and there are still many, many things she doesn't know about him. There's a lot he doesn't know about her, too. There are probably quite a few things that they will never know about one another, and that's fine. Family does not necessarily mean full disclosure. But they really are becoming more of a family, and someday perhaps the term will come to her without any hesitation.

"Do you think the maples will flower soon?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "They bloom later. The cherries will come before."

Yes, that's right. Though light-colored flowers adorn the garden throughout spring, the maples are always the last to bloom and bear their small fruits.

They will have all season to grieve, for their feelings to ebb and flow until they are put aside firmly, and perhaps that is as it should be. She cannot go around openly carrying negativity and expect to be productive. Even he, lonely as he is, puts aside all that, and perhaps that is truly why he is so lonely. If he were to connect with anyone, his feelings would overwhelm him. Yes, it must be exhausting. Perhaps she will one day find the strength to accept his pain. She owes him that much.


End file.
